


doing all right

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Swearing, mild violence, protective roger, this isn't really shippy but just know that it's lowkey maycury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 22:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17354024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: Even when they're at each other's throats, Roger's got Freddie's back.





	doing all right

Brian’s not actually sure _what_ they’re fighting about this time; it doesn’t take much for Freddie and Roger to butt heads.  It doesn’t take much for any of them to butt heads, if he’s being honest, but Freddie and Roger are the loudest of them and their fights, while usually short, tend to be screaming matches so they’re much more difficult to ignore than, say, Deaky’s silent glowering.  

Used to it by now, Brian barely even blinks as someone’s hair tong is hurled across the dressing room.  He casts a quick glance over the two of them in the mirror to make sure they’re not about to come to blows before he carries on wiping the stage makeup off.

Frankly, if they _did_ come to blows, he’s not entirely sure he’d stop them.

Things have quieted down by the time he’s done, Freddie lounging across a chair and smoking while Roger glares at him and drinks beer.  It’s not exactly peachy keen between them but at least they’ve both shut up.

“Maybe we should all head out for a drink?” Brian suggests, looking around at his discontented band.  “Cool off a bit before we head back to the hotel?”

“I’m _perfectly_ cooled off—”

“That sounds wonderful, darling!” Freddie chirps, swinging out of his chair and putting the cigarette out.  “I’m so thirsty I could just _die.”_

_“_ Try it,” Roger mutters.

“Hey!”  Brian shoots him a glare that Roger simply shrugs off.

Freddie laughs.  “And _then_ where would you be, Rog?  Pulling teeth on the NHS?”

“Fuck off,” Roger growls, but he gets up to follow him out.  A drink or eight sounds perfect right about now, and if he’s drunk he can conceivably punch Freddie in the face without being held too much to blame for it.

 

* * *

 

In the car, another argument erupts over where to go to get a drink.  Roger wants to go to a new place someone told him about; Freddie liked where they went last night.  Apparently compromise is out of the question.  

“Look, Fred, why don’t we try somewhere new?” Brian asks eventually, low in his ear.  In these moods, Freddie’s easier to appeal to than Roger.  

Freddie rolls his eyes.  “Fine,” he relents with bad grace.  “But if it’s a bore I’m leaving.”

“Well don’t hang about on _our_ account, Fred.”

“ _Roger_ will you give it a fucking _rest_?” Brian snaps, silently patting Freddie’s knee in thanks.  

He can hear Deaky sniggering to himself as he stares out of the window and silently but cathartically imagines throttling certain of his bandmates.  

Mercifully, Roger remains quiet for the rest of the ride and Freddie doesn’t try to antagonise him any more, not even sparing their drummer a glance as he swans past him to walk into the club before anyone else.  

“Typical Fred,” Roger says, just loud enough for him to hear.

Brian shoots Roger another _look_ and takes two quick strides to catch up with Freddie, leaving John to deal with Roger because frankly Brian can’t be bothered to listen to him bitch about Freddie right now.  

They walk straight up to the bar and Brian leans over Freddie to order for both of them, shouting to be heard over the din.  Roger probably had the right idea with this place; it’s so loud that there’s no way he and Freddie could continue arguing in here.  

“Should we find somewhere to sit?” Brian mouths, jerking his head to indicate getting away from the bar.

Freddie points.  “Already sorted!”

Deaky has somehow managed to secure a booth along the far wall and they fight their way back through the crowd to join him. 

Thankfully, the place is dim but for flashing strobe lights which make it difficult to make out anyone, let alone spot a rockstar.  Even so, Brian turns his back to the crowd as much as he can and leans his elbow on the table, his torso blocking most of Freddie from view should anyone glance over; he’s the one people tend to recognise quickest.

With the music, it’s hard to actually chat but they’re all dab hands at communicating around deafening noise.  Freddie and Roger won’t look at each other but they’re both perfectly civil toward the others so Brian can’t really complain.

They talk a bit about the show that night, which had been a good one with nothing major they need to have words with any of their technical team about, and even Brian doesn’t find anything to criticise in the performances themselves.

Freddie does accuse Roger of cutting off one of his segments where he spoke to the audience and Roger tells him to fuck off.  Freddie flings an ice cube at Roger’s head, which (fortunately) misses its mark and Brian yanks Freddie away to the bar to order more drinks.

More drinks may be a bad idea, actually, but frankly Brian needs more alcohol to deal with his bandmates so another round it is.

And another.

And another.

Brian’s not sure exactly which number they’re on, or what causes the next blow up, but somehow Roger’s drink gets thrown in Freddie’s face. 

Freddie does not take it well.  He lets out a scream of pure anger and tries to swipe at Roger with his nails, leaning across the table and unable to reach, which only makes him angrier.  He throws his entire glass at Roger, who manages to duck it—laughing infuriatingly—and it smashes against the wall behind their booth.

“Go _fuck_ yourself, _darling_ , I’m sure there’s a broken fucking bottle around here somewhere,” Freddie says acidly, and shoves past Brian none-too-gently to get free of his seat.

“That’s more up your street, isn’t it?” Roger yells after him.

Freddie flips him off and storms through the crowd to the exit, leaving Roger to catch his breath from the adrenaline of the argument.

“Of all bands,” Deaky says mournfully, “I just _had_ to choose this one.”

“We shouldn’t leave him alone,” Brian says, standing up.

“Fuck _sake_ , Brian, stop fucking babying him, he’s _fine_ ,” Roger snaps.

Brian doesn’t let the tone get to him and throws his cash down to cover half the tab they’d opened.  “Well I’m not staying here.  I’ll see you both back at the hotel.”

Roger waves him off with a dismissive grunt that’s more seen than heard and Brian makes the same track through the crowd as Freddie had moments before, though with less swearing and no vicious elbows.

He half expects to find Freddie already gone, having clambered into the first car he saw and sped away, but Brian finds him outside smoking.

“I don’t have any fucking cash for a taxi,” Freddie tells him when he spots the questioning look on Brian’s face.  

Brian pats his pockets and winces.  “Neither do I,” he admits.  He’d thrown the last of it on the table inside.

“Do you have change for the phone?”

Brian shakes his head no and Freddie swears loudly.  A few men across the street turn at the noise and Brian eyes them warily but they don’t react.  

“Let’s go back inside and call the hotel, they’ll send a car,” Brian suggests, already knowing that—

“Absolutely _fucking_ not.”

—Freddie will refuse.

Brian resists the desire to sigh loudly at Freddie’s dramatics.  “Fine, I’ll go.  Do you want to wait here?”

“Well I’m not fucking _walking_ back to the hotel!”

Brian leaves him, slipping back through the door to appeal to the barman for use of the phone.  

Freddie stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another one, scuffing one foot angrily against the wall and wondering how fucking long it takes to make a single phone call.  He’s already antsy.  He despises being alone and he specifically despises this; it’s late and dark, the street deserted but for him and the men just down the road.  They’re loud and raucous, shoving at each other and laughing boisterously.

Freddie tells himself he isn’t nervous but he catches himself watching them like a hawk, just _knowing_ that before long—

“Oi!” 

They’re going to turn their attention to him.

Freddie ignores the shout and leans casually against the wall, taking a long, deliberate puff on his cigarette like he hasn’t heard a thing.

It doesn’t work; two of them come sauntering over, and then a few friends on their heels.  Too fucking many for Freddie’s liking.

“I reckon that’s a fag,” one of them says, loudly—Freddie’s obviously supposed to hear it.  

He does.  He glances over at them and calmly arches an eyebrow.  “Can I help you, boys?”

“Yeah, you can help us all by fucking off back to whatever little hole you crawled out of before I smash your teeth in,” the first one shoots back.  “We don’t want your kind round here.”

“ _My_ kind?” Freddie repeats, taking a step forward just as Brian reappears in the doorway.

He takes in the scene at once; Freddie, incensed, staring down at least six men out in the street, all of whom look like the sort who could snap him in half on their own, let alone with back-up.  One of them has a neck tattoo and three have cigarettes hanging from their mouths, starkly different to the way Freddie delicately holds his between two fingers.

It’s quite obvious at a glance that Freddie isn’t about to back down and Brian hastily steps toward him.  “Freddie, come on.  I’ve called a car, let’s go.”

“Is that your fucking boyfriend?”

“ _Two_ poofs!  Fuck me, this place is really going to the fucking _dogs_.”

Freddie’s jaw is set and Brian gives him a gentle shove.  “ _Freddie_ , move.”  They are _not_ getting tangled up in this, no matter how badly Freddie is spoiling for a fight.

Freddie takes a single step before another, familiar voice joins the fray and he stops again.

“Are you _still here_?  I _thought_ you were fucking off so _we_ could enjoy the rest of the night,” Roger bites out.

A couple of the men laugh and one of them steps closer to Roger.  “They’re just leaving, mate—we’ve told ‘em, no poofters around here.”

Roger goes still.  “You told them what?”

“No dirty fucking faggots in _our_ town—if—”

Brian reacts fast and manages to catch Freddie around the waist as he lunges but he doesn’t account for Roger, who flings himself at the first man with such force they both tumble to the ground.

“Roger, stop!” Brian yells as Freddie screams, “GET HIM, ROG!  Brian get _off_ me!”

Brian doesn’t let him go and Freddie struggles against him like a wild thing even as the door to the pub bangs open and several more men spill out, including one John Deacon who doesn’t hesitate to wade into the fray.

The fight is broken up in an instant, Deaky hauling Roger up by the arm while others yank the homophobes away.  

Roger’s spitting through a split lip and tears free with a growl, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth.  “You come round here talking to _my_ friends like that again and I’ll fucking _kill you_ ,” Roger snarls even as John shoves him back toward Brian and Freddie.

“Calm down, Roger, they’ll call the police, that’s the _last_ thing we need,” Deaky tells him, one hand on Roger’s elbow in case he decides to attack again.  “What on Earth just _happened_?”

“Fucking homophobic _pricks_ out here thinking they own this goddamn town or something, calling Freddie—all sorts of shit.”  Roger’s still burning with fury, Deaky has to keep pushing him between the shoulder-blades to keep him walking until they’re level with their bandmates.

It’s only then that Brian releases Freddie, who immediately catches Roger by the shoulders and stares intently at him.  “God, Roger, are you alright?  You’re bleeding, darling!”

“It’s nothing, just caught my tooth I think,” Roger says, swiping at the fresh blood with his thumb.  

“My God, _Rog_ ,” Freddie sighs out.  “Thank you, darling.  You didn’t have to do that.”

“I fucking did,” Roger says darkly.  “I’m not letting them get away with that shit, especially not with _you_.”

He’s moved Freddie nearly to tears and Freddie flings his arms around Roger’s neck to hug him tightly, not even minding that he’s probably gotten blood over one of his favourite shirts.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Freddie says bracingly once he’s pulled away.  “I’ll buy us all drinks—and an entire bottle for Roger!”

“Make that _three_ bottles for me, Fred—I just risked my damn life for you!”

Freddie laughs, the good kind where he throws his head back.  “Darling, have four!”  

They fall into step and immediately bend their heads together, Freddie recalling through nearly-hysterical giggles just how quickly Roger had attacked while Roger reenacts the one good punch he’d gotten in before John had pulled him away.

Brian walks side-by-side with Deaky and the two of them exchange a look to silently convey, _What the fuck is up with these two_.  Nobody would ever know that not fifteen minutes ago, Freddie had thrown a glass at Roger in a fit of rage.

Their fight is immediately forgotten, somehow already resolved, the way their arguments always are.

It’s maddening, sometimes, particularly when Brian’s arguments with either of them are usually days-long _wars_ of passive-aggression and snide comments, but he can’t really begrudge them and doesn’t want to.  Of course, he’d rather it _hadn’t_ come about by bloodshed but he’d take this over the evening he’d had to spend with the bastards any day.

Spotting their taxi up ahead, Brian gets an arm around Deaky’s shoulders and pushes ahead to catch up, throwing his other arm around Freddie, who still has hold of Roger.  “You bunch of idiots,” he says, fondly.  “Shame you had to ruin your face, Rog—Deaky’ll have to be the pretty one now.”

“Bit of a dubious honour,” John replies dryly.  “Do I have to dress like Roger?”

“What’s wrong with how I dress?” Roger demands immediately, play-shoving sideways so they all stagger into the thankfully empty road.

“Well, that jacket, for one…”

“That’s _mine_!” Freddie gasps indignantly.

“Oh.”  Deaky snorts with laughter as he ducks into the taxi, half-tackled into the back by an offended Freddie and a supportive Roger.

Brian glances back down the street to see that the men outside the pub have all dispersed, pissed off to God-knows-where to harass someone else, probably, while his bandmates (this ridiculous little family of his) fight over seatbelts and ashtrays, safe and sound and laughing.

It’s been a shitty day but they’ve turned it around; they always do, in the end.

They’re doing all right.

 


End file.
